Conversations We Never Had
by Ansy Pansy aka Panz
Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid.
1. Chapter 1

**Conversations We Never Had**

**Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Silk would not be over!**

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A.N. Well, this is a revelation! Ansy Pansy aka Panz is back! Although it seems so long ago that I chose that name that she feels like a different person! I apologise to all my lovely O.C.-fan readers who I imagine may be cursing that this isn't an O.C. fic. But you know, you might really love Silk if you watched it…give it a go! If any of you are still around, say hi! And new readers say hi too! This is for the lovely Silk fans who I have been messaging with, especially csjr and HedgieX. You're getting me through the withdrawal, I hope this helps too!  
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1.

Clive had been glancing across at her, away and back again, for the last twenty minutes. It belied the law of averages that she hadn't caught him looking or looked back once, but she was doing a rather stellar job of ignoring him. He didn't have the guts right then, or ever, to say her name without some sort of invitation. It was twenty two minutes since they'd been kicked out of Billy's room before their eyes met. He hoped they'd be let back in, or at least that they'd let Martha back in before the end, if this is what it was. She looked away quickly, uncomfortable at finding him watching her, but it was enough.

'Marth…' he began, leaning forward on the uncomfortable row of chairs they were occupying, hands balancing in the air between his knees, ready to duet with his words.

'Don't,' she said sharply, staring steadfastly ahead.

He noticed, absently, that her lipstick had worn off. She looked vulnerable somehow, without her bright red shield.

'Marth,' he tried again. 'Look…'

'Don't Clive!' she snapped. 'Just don't. This is neither the time nor the place.'

Clive nodded mutely. He couldn't argue with that though he desperately wanted to explain everything. Almost as desperately as he wished he could hold her hand.

Martha lent back, eyes closed, her head hitting the white emulsion wall with a hollow thud. The day had gone on forever, one loss after another; Sean, Head of Chambers, her place in Chambers itself; her family, her home, and now Billy. She wasn't sure she was ready to face that loss, even though she'd had a little more preparation than most. To let the man in the next room, who was more than a colleague, more than a friend; family, slip away. But she didn't have a choice. And bloody Clive thought this was an opportune moment for a chat. To plead his case for fucking her over, or for fucking Harriet, one of the two, or both. The thought that he may have simply wanted to offer comfort crept into her head, unbidden, and she pushed it away angrily. She was done giving Clive Reader the benefit of the doubt.

She was roused from that frustrating train of thought by the door to Billy's room opening and his son ushering her back inside.

'He's asking for you,' he said and she jumped up, glancing at Clive who was watching her again.

'I'll be here,' he said and she allowed him the slightest of nods before going back into the room. She'd left to give the family some privacy, her goodbyes all but done, but she was glad to be here for him too. To be amongst those who loved Billy most, who loved him like she did. Whether he was family or friend, father or clerk, he was a fighter, a protector, in his element ducking and diving for those he loved. Mrs Lamb nodded to the seat on Billy's right and she sank into it with a small, tight smile, not really registering her or her daughter, not hearing the sound of the door swinging shut again, the scrape of the chair as the son sat back down. Billy didn't look any worse and his eyelids flickered as she took his hand.

'Miss,' he ground out, eyes fighting to open against the pain and the medication. His voice was weak but it was still him, his face twisting the slightest increment in a ghost of his former smirk.

'You can go Billy,' she told him, straightforward and unwavering as always, although she didn't know how.

He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. Then he relaxed and though he was still with them another three hours he didn't do it again.

She had to admit, much as she didn't want to, that she was glad Clive was still there when she stepped out of the room. He stood up as she came out, expectant, jumping to attention, even though he must have known the reason she was back in the corridor. She nodded at the silent question and he held his arms out. The need for comfort overcame her pride and with just a little hesitation she let herself be folded into his arms, tears springing to soak the shoulder of his overcoat. It was comforting too to know that even when he did fuck up, Clive was always there, in the end. He was loyal like that at least. He was a good friend. They made such good friends. She wondered why he had been so persistent in trying to change that. It was all ending in tears just like she knew it would. Not that she was crying about that. Losing Billy was likely to use up her limited quota of tears for a very long time.

'I'm so sorry,' Clive whispered and she knew for once they weren't talking in riddles, no double meaning, no secret subtext about themselves. He meant it, about Billy. It was only about Billy right now. She gripped the thick fabric at his back for a few more minutes before pulling away.

'I'll take you home,' he said, looking away as she gathered herself.

'It's fine, I can take a cab.'

'I'm taking you home,' he repeated, leaving no room for argument and Martha was too tired and wrung out with grief to try.

She nodded and let him help her into her coat. He led her down the corridor and she let herself go onto autopilot. Billy was gone. _Billy_. It was all her brain could do to try and comprehend that.

She didn't remember much of the rest of the night after that, little as there was of it left. The sun was high in the sky, streaming through a crack in the curtains that she vaguely remembered Clive tugging closed. The crushing weight of reality appeared a moment later, along with the desire to curl under the covers and block it out. She felt like wallowing for the first time in a long time; three years in fact, but some strange preservation instinct, some sense of honour to Billy, got her out of bed, that and overwhelming thirst. She shuffled into the other room, shifting uncomfortably in the white oxford shirt which she'd slept in and was now twisted. She'd shed the skirt before she crawled into bed and the jacket had been abandoned some time before, she wasn't quite sure where on when. She hoped, absently, that Clive had picked it up. And speaking of Clive, she stopped in her tracks to see the man himself stretched out as best he could on her sofa.

She felt annoyance and affection in equal measure and a moment of indecision as to whether she should continue to pad about barefoot in only her shirt and pants. She shrugged off the thought; she really didn't care about that right now and it wasn't as though it was anything Clive hadn't already seen. She continued into the kitchen, filling a tall glass at the tap and downing it quickly. She refilled it and settled back against the counter as she drank, her eyes, though she would never admit it, on Clive. He looked younger when he was asleep, laughter lines softened, usually neat hair mussed, looking the way it had the morning after she'd spent the night running her hands through it. She shook that thought off too. She was mad at him, betrayed by him, why did her brain think this was a good time to think about _that_?

As though he knew he was being watched, the blue eyes blinked open, it was uncanny how he always knew, and he smiled at her. It was nice, in a way, that moment of sleepy, unguarded, genuine Clive. Smiling just because she was there. It helped too that the smile wasn't accompanied by a wisecrack.

'You're too tall for that couch,' she said, before she could say something stupid. Although the couch comment was hardly an astute observation.

'Morning Marth,' he said, lips quirking a little more over the words, voice gravelly.

Martha hated the way she liked it.

'You're still here,' she said. It came out more snappish than she'd intended in an attempt to control her feelings. Now was not the time to acknowledge finding anything about Clive Reader attractive. It was the grief she told herself, the shock, the lack of sleep, the onslaught of change that had come upon her in the last forty eight hours that was making her cling to the familiarity of Clive, just their long friendship making her feel affectionate. Though, truth be told, it was far more than affection, far more than friendship and that throaty purr of his warmed a lot more than her heart. She needed a good shake. Honestly. The man was an ass. An ass who had slept on her uncomfortable couch all night.

'Marth?'

That voice shook her out of that train of thought.

'What? What did you say?' she asked, flustered.

'I said, where else would I be?'

Martha bit back a retort about willing women and plenty of offers.

'Tea?' she offered and he nodded so she turned away from him stretching languidly and busied herself with the kettle. If she didn't know better she'd think he was doing it on purpose.

He accepted the tea gratefully, a little put out when she sat herself down at the table rather than beside him but it was to be expected, he knew that, and at least she was still talking to him. So far. He eyed her over the rim of his mug. He knew, objectively, that they both must look a state; yesterday's slept in clothes, shadows under their eyes from grief and too little sleep. But somehow Martha still looked good, crumpled shirt, wild hair and all. He wasn't sure what it was; she wasn't conventionally attractive, yet exhausted, grieving, with her make up all but cried off, she still captivated him. He guessed that was what love was. Too bad it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. Not for Martha Costello. What the hell had he been thinking?

She intrigued and frustrated him in equal measure and she just kept saying no. A part of him knew he'd been on probation the last few months, that she was testing him and he'd failed. That's why she'd pushed so hard, fought him on everything, just to see how far he'd go. But she'd teased and flirted too and then there was that kiss. Why did one kiss from Martha get him more riled up than anything? Why could he remember it in such vivid, painful, wonderful detail when his tryst with Harriet just the other evening was so blurred? A fast forward film of the wrong touch, the wrong lips, the wrong body. A release that brought no relief.

He didn't want to feel guilty. Whatever was going on with him and Martha was done; she'd said so, not in so many words, but the double meaning of their conversation was clear. Not that there had been anything defined to begin with. Not that she had ever said anything back, not to any of it. And yet the guilt had settled in his stomach the moment he came down from his short-lived high. And now with Martha's sad eyes sat across from him he could feel it prickling up his spine. He looked away, down into his tea and wondered when it had all got so complicated. He knew the answer; Nottingham. But that brought with it a whole host of dark thoughts that he'd rather not revisit.

He might not have known it then but Martha Costello stole his heart the night she got drunk enough to sleep with him. But the worst thing was that even once he knew and even once she knew, she seemed to care so very little. At least he was in good company, he thought mutinously; everyone was at least a little bit in love with Martha Costello. Clients, pupils, judges, clerks from Jake to Billy…

Billy.

The thought was a punch in the gut. He knew Martha would never believe him now, in light of recent events, but he had the highest respect for Billy. Feared him as a clerk, loved him as a man, loved him for the way he loved Martha. His death was unimaginable, unreal. He could only imagine how much Martha was hurting if this was the way he felt. He wished he knew how to tell her that, wished he knew how to make her believe it. In the absence of that kind of knowledge he took a gulp of tea, focussing on the hot water burning down his throat as a distraction from the burning behind his eyes. He was supposed to be here looking after her, because Billy was gone, because Billy couldn't do it anymore, because it was all he wanted to do, because he'd meant what he said when he'd said where else would he be, but he was doing a shit job of it. She'd only been up ten minutes, barely said ten words to him and he was already failing. He wished he knew how to stop loving her quite so much and then immediately wished he'd never thought such a thing. Loving Martha was a painful pleasure, a strangely pleasurable pain. He wasn't sure he wanted to give that up, not really.

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Please leave a review and if you know how to get double line spacing to work on ff these days do let me know! x  
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	2. Chapter 2

Silk - Conversations

**Conversations We Never Had**

**Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Silk would not be over!**

A.N. Thank you sooo much for the lovely reviews. It is so exciting to be sharing this with you and hearing what you think. While this is the only other chapter I have written so far, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic that aims to get Martha and Clive back to a good place…eventually!

2.

They sat without finding anything to say until their cups were empty. Martha because the anger at Clive was trickling back through the haze of grief and shock and Clive because he didn't know how to say what he wanted without making everything worse. Eventually Martha pushed away from the table.

'I'm going to take a shower,' was all she said and Clive knew it was as good as a dismissal.

He pretended he wasn't look at her bum as he watched her retreating figure but he was. It had been quite the revelation to discover she wore sexy underwear that night in Nottingham. Those tiny, spotty, frilly pants had truly driven him over the edge when it came to his lusting over Martha Costello, and had featured prominently in several of the fantasies he'd concocted since. The discovery was so unexpected that he couldn't help stuffing them in his pocket the following morning in the scramble that ensued when Billy called, expecting them back in chambers and they'd overslept. He wasn't a creep; he didn't make a habit of keeping women's underwear, but he was half asleep and half convinced it had all been a dream. The pants were proof it wasn't and that Martha really was a minx under that cool, collected, professional exterior. He'd entertained himself quite pleasurably in the next few weeks, when Martha was acting as though nothing had happened, with wondering each day what was hiding beneath her modest skirt. Under that crisp, plain white shirt. What he would find if he was to run his hands up her legs from those serviceable shoes, up past her stocking tops.

After a while though he began to feel awkward about the pants in his possession, especially in light of Martha's silent denial that anything had happened between them. He thought he would probably get a slap for putting them in her pigeon hole, a reprimand and a glare at least, but he couldn't resist teasing her like that. He needed some kind of reaction from her, wanted to remind her that much as she might be trying to pretend it didn't happen, (though why he didn't know know when that night had been rather epic) Nottingham did happen and he wouldn't mind repeating it. He was pretty sure she would too if she wasn't Martha and he wasn't Clive and they weren't in chambers together. But she was Martha and he was Clive and that was still the problem. She was Martha; independent, unattached, self-sufficient and he was Clive; needy, jealous and easily flattered into sleeping with the wrong woman.

Martha knew he was watching her but she didn't have the energy to turn around and shoot him a glare. Let him look. It was all he was going to get. She stripped off once the door was closed behind her, leaving her remaining clothes on the bathroom floor, and was stepping into the shower when she heard the door slam. She told herself that it didn't matter, that she wanted him gone, as she ducked under the spray but she didn't feel convinced and the tears for Billy that she'd been holding back as she stared into her tea and avoided Clive's puppy dog eyes came all the quicker. Martha Costello didn't think about things like being alone very often, she didn't feel lonely or question the way she'd chosen to live her life, but on the morning after Billy Lamb passed away she did.

She wondered who she had if she didn't have Billy any more. Who she had in the world that cared about her. She wondered what she had sacrificed, what she had missed out on, whether she was right to push Clive away, keep him at arm's length, resist the charm that seemed to have crept back, at least until he'd slept with Harriet and convinced chambers to destroy itself. She wondered whether, if it had been anyone else, it would have grated so much. She wasn't jealous. Not exactly. She knew she could have had Clive and she'd told him no. Did she really not want him to have anyone else? The answer was possibly yes, she just wasn't certain and didn't want to admit it if it was. But she was sure that it should have been anyone but Harriet Hammond. That was what made it a betrayal though she had no claim on him. That was what wrankled, that was what hurt. She'd said she couldn't and he'd gone and slept with the woman who was set on destroying Shoe Lane, disgracing Billy and evicting Martha.

She wondered what would have happened if she'd been able to say yes. If she'd given Clive what he wanted. Would it really have been that different? Sean would still be in prison, Billy would still be dead and Clive would still be head of chambers, and surely it would be worse to have Clive stand up and make a speech effectively kicking her out of chambers when she'd admitted she loved him. But it was a very small comfort that she at least had that, a meagre mercy that didn't stem the flow of tears washing down the drain with the water. She cried a another set of tears for Billy, tears for Sean and tears for herself. Tears because she had lost, tears because Shoe Lane would never be the same, because it was no longer her family, no longer her home and she didn't know where to go or what came next.

The water was running cold before she managed to soap and rinse and get out the shower. She pulled on the first items of casual clothes she found; a pair of patterned cotton pyjama pants, a t-shirt and a zip hoodie, cashmere that was almost as cosy and comforting as getting back under the duvet. She shuffled back into the living rom in her tatty slippers, stopping short again with a sense of deja vu to see Clive in her kitchen, apparently making scrambled eggs.

'I thought you left,' she said.

'I went to Tesco,' he told her and gestured to the table. 'I left you a note.'

'Oh,' Martha said, not knowing what to make of this. She wanted to be mad at him, she _was _mad at him, and he was cooking her breakfast and acting like everything was fine. It was so frustrating and if anything he was just making it worse, sort of. She glanced at the note as Clive carried on talking, eyes taking in the distinctive handwriting but not really reading the words.

'You had literally no food,' he was saying. 'Do you even eat Marth?'

If things had been normal she would have called him a hypocrite, teased him about the lack of food she was sure to find in the fridge and kitchen cupboards of his own flat. But things weren't normal so she simply shrugged and sloped over to the kitchen, opening the fridge. It looked positively full in comparison to yesterday; milk, butter, eggs, juice, fruit and jam now resting alongside the three bottles of beer. There was a loaf of bread on the counter next to the toaster and Clive was frying bacon in another pan beside the eggs.

'You didn't have to,' she said with difficulty, wishing she wasn't feeling even a little bit grateful. She really didn't want to leave the flat today and now she didn't have to.

It was Clive's turn to shrug as he reached past her, snatching two pieces of toast out of the toaster and dropping them onto two mismatched plates. Wordlessly Martha collected cutlery from the drawer and filled two glasses with the orange juice from the fridge. Clive set the plates on the table and offered her an awkward smile as he sat down. She joined him, eyeing the plate of food hesitantly. It smelt good but she didn't seem to have any appetite, despite the fact she hadn't really eaten since lunchtime yesterday.

'I know you probably don't feel like eating,' Clive said gently. 'But you should try to have something.'

She wondered how he knew exactly what she was thinking and gave him a ghost of a smile.

'Thank you,' she said, and she meant for everything.

Clive just nodded, the movement slight, his eyes not meeting hers and she knew that he knew that this was just a respite, a truce because Billy had died, and that was the only reason she was accepting food and kindness and comfort from him. He wasn't off the hook and he knew it. Funnily enough it made her feel better. Knowing that for all he was an idiot, Clive wasn't a complete moron; that he was still waiting for the fallout. Knowing that she didn't have to summon the energy to get properly angry, to talk about it all just yet. Eighteen years of friendship had got them that far; able to care for each other, able to sit together at a table and share a meal, even if the world had gone to hell in a handcart and it was all their own fault. All Clive's fault.

She knew that was unfair, really. Clive couldn't stop Billy dying. Clive didn't send Sean to prison, although he'd helped. Clive didn't make her say no to him, in fact he made her come very close to saying yes. But she could blame him for the rest. For being weak and foolish and easily led, for not understanding the difference between a career and a vocation, for not understanding that she couldn't prosecute. For knowing that she couldn't and taking chambers anyway.

Part of her knew, too, that it probably was a sound financial decision. That Clive wouldn't technically ruin chambers, even if he would rip the heart out. The way things were going, with the political climate the way it was, it probably made some kind of sense, if you were far enough away from it to see objectively. But it wasn't in Martha's nature to roll with the punches, to adapt to the situation rather than fight it. If the system was squeezing defence then the system needed challenging, changing, fighting. You didn't just roll over and let it go, erase everything that Billy had worked his whole life to create, everything that Martha was.

Clive didn't ask her what she was thinking, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He wasn't ready for reality, for the aftermath. They were in a bubble right now, Billy's death giving them a stay of execution, on life, on talking, on their friendship. But it was never going to be long enough. Martha would find her voice and her fire again and then he was done for. Life would come crashing back in the moment his phone had power again. He was the newly minted head of chambers and he'd just disappeared. No doubt most of chambers would know exactly where he was but, thankfully, he doubted any of them would tell Harriet. The thought of her was uncomfortable, especially here, inappropriate, painful, when Martha was sat across from him. Before the guilt could paralyse him he stood up and reached for their plates. Martha looked surprised to realise she was finished. She'd methodically eaten the contents without really noticing. He felt something burn in his chest knowing that if he hadn't been here she wouldn't have eaten. Knowing that much as she never _needed_ anyone she needed him now. Knowing that she wouldn't let him look after her much longer. He had already outstayed his welcome by even being here. It was only grief and their long friendship that stopped her shutting him out completely and he wouldn't be surprised if the latter was over. He was on borrowed time.

He stacked the plates and cutlery in the dishwasher slowly, drawing out the time before the inevitable. Before he had to leave and this moment of limbo would be over. Before he had to go back to chambers and face up to what he'd done, to Billy being gone, to the new era of Shoe Lane, to Harriet, to the spectre of Martha that was always in their office even when she wasn't there herself. Eventually he could stall no longer. He turned around, standing awkwardly in the kitchen and looking for the words, trying to find a way to leave when he really, really didn't want to. Martha was still at the table, gently twisting her ring around her thumb.

'I guess I should go,' he said. 'Take a shower, charge my phone…'

If things were normal Martha might even have managed to make a joke, tease him about being unwashed and unpolished, wearing yesterday's well creased clothes. But things weren't normal and she didn't. She just nodded, the movement so slight he almost missed it. He retrieved his suit jacket and hesitated; wanting to say something, wanting to touch her hand or her shoulder. 'I'm here,' he wanted to say, if you need anything. When you're ready to talk or ready to yell, I'll be here.' But he didn't. He wanted to lean in and press a kiss to her head but he didn't want to feel her flinch away from him. She looked so small and worn, hunched at the table. When was the last time Martha Costello had been at home late on a Thursday morning? When was the last time he had been caught short in a crumpled suit? He didn't look like Clive Reader Q.C. and he didn't feel like it either.

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	3. Chapter 3

Silk - Conversations

**Conversations We Never Had**

**Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Silk would not be over!**

A.N. Helloooo! I am back! I am so sorry for the long wait but I promise I will never abandon this story. We haven't even got to the part I envisaged when I was first inspired to write it yet! But that said, I haven't actually got more than a few more lines written beyond this (although it is planned out) and I have a really hectic few weeks coming up so I may be absent again for a while. I hope you enjoy this though and it tides you over until next time! It went in a really unexpected direction so I'd love to know what you think…and fear not; Martha is still good and mad. The real argument is yet to come!

3.

Clive shifted his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the shrill peal of Martha's doorbell fade and the sound of her footsteps coming closer. She obviously didn't look through the peephole first as she opened the door fully and there was a split second before the frown appeared when she saw who it was.

'Oh,' she said, clearly surprised to see him. He wondered who she was expecting before she continued and answered his silent question.

'Thought you were Chinese.'

Clive pushed away the thought of when he'd heard similar before. Jealousy did no good at all. Martha wouldn't stand for it. Especially when it was unfounded.

'No, sorry,' he said, trying to joke. 'Just me.'

Martha crossed her arms protectively across her chest, letting the door close slightly so she filled the gap. He was definitely not getting invited in tonight. She narrowed her eyes and Clive wondered how long he had before she began tapping her foot.

'What do you want Clive?'

Her tone was hard, exasperated, but mostly it just sounded tired. He wished she knew that he wasn't there to fight, wasn't there for anything really except he'd wanted to see her. They rarely didn't see each other every day, rarer still was it that Martha took a day off. He wanted to know she was okay, or as okay as any of them were right them. Chambers was in disarray, rudderless without Billy. And Clive was supposed to be the leader and he was a mess. He needed Martha and he knew he could never ask.

'You weren't in Chambers today,' he said. It was part question, part statement.

'No.'

'Are you okay?'

'No! Jesus Clive! Billy died _yesterday_! I can't just… I can't just walk into Chambers like everything is fine! I don't…even think I can go back there…without him…never mind everything else…'

'Ever?' Clive asked, his voice hushed, cracking at the horrible thought.

'I don't know. And I don't appreciate you turning up here, berating me for not being at work.'

'I wasn't! That isn't what this is.'

She scoffed.

'No. Marth… I just wanted to…I needed…to see you were alright, under the circumstances. And that's because…well, you know why.'

'You didn't have to do that,' she said, and Clive thought she might be softening.

'I…' he tried, but Martha cut him off, her voice harder than ever.

'No. You really didn't have to do that,' she said and then he was left staring at the door as it was shut in his face.

Martha leant back, resting against the door she'd just pushed closed, with more of a sharp click than a slam, and breathed slowly as she listened to Clive retreating back up the steps to the street. She concentrated on the air going into her lungs; deep breaths in through her nose and long, slow ones out through her mouth. She pushed down the anger, the hurt, and pressed back the tears that were threatening. What the hell was it about Clive that made her feel so much? So frustrated, so angry, so hurt, so conflicted? And why was eighteen years of friendship not enough of a reason to show up at her door even though she was mad at him? Why did he have to bring love into it?

Once she was sure she wasn't going to cry, or break something, she returned to the lounge, setting the needle onto the record on the player. She let the music wash over her, calming her further. Though when the doorbell rang for a second time she made sure to check it really was the delivery man before she opened the door.

She spent the weekend mostly out of the flat, just in case Clive took it into his head to try again. She also didn't want to be faced with anyone else and she wouldn't put it past Jake and Bethany, Alan or even CW to swing by to check on her, either at Clive's bidding or on their own. The idea of seeing anyone from chambers was too painful. Clive was different. Though he too was tied to Billy, more so than the others, aside from Alan, she had spent plenty of time with him out of chambers too. And in this case the connection to Billy was eclipsed by the other pressing things when it came to Clive; anger, betrayal and the very real desire to leave a handprint on his face.

She lingered in one of London's parks, one with deck chairs; flopped back against the striped canvas with her shades on, pretending she was getting a tan when she knew she wouldn't. It was unseasonably warm, unpleasantly hot and unsuitably sunny for the circumstances, for the way she felt. She took a book that she hadn't got past the first page of in the three years it had been sat on her nightstand but scowled restlessly at it before she'd even turned three pages. She went through some of the files that she had at home for upcoming cases. She'd expected Sean's trial to last longer, Billy had too if her diary was anything to go by. Or perhaps he had known she would need some time after, knew she was going to lose, knew he was going, knew Clive was going to win, she wasn't sure which, if any, and she tried to push away the thoughts of all three of them. She felt bored but she felt listless, anxious to be working but lacking the energy to do it, the drive, the desire. The confidence she'd had, the certainty, the thrum in her blood at the thought of a case, of a trial, seemed to have ebbed away. She wasn't sure if it was the spate of losses; that appeal, Sean, especially Sean, the general malaise that had settled over her as the justice system revealed itself to be so far from just, if it was Billy; the loss, the prospect of Shoe Lane without him, if it was Clive; his declaration, his double betrayal; the personal and the professional, the loss of a friend, the thought of prosecuting, the idea of leaving Shoe Lane. It seemed as though everything had happened at once.

On Monday evening Clive was at the door again and Martha stood at the peephole for a long few seconds wondering how long his persistence would last and debating whether it was better to get the confrontation over with.

'What are you doing here?' she asked, before the door was barely open.

Since they were dispensing with the niceties, Clive dived straight in. 'You weren't in chambers today, right?'

'Obviously.'

'I was in court this morning and meetings all afternoon, thought I might have missed you.'

'No,' she said and paused for a second, unsure whether she wanted to start this, whether she really wanted to know.

'Head of Chambers meetings?'

Clive had the decency to at least look awkward at that. 'Yes.'

She'd known, really, as soon as she'd stood up and couldn't speak, that Clive would win. It made her feel worse than she already did that she couldn't stand up and fight for Shoe Lane but she didn't have a speech in her, didn't have a plan. She was a lone ranger not a leader. And CW, for all she was brilliant, was not the obvious choice when Clive was in the running, the threat of prosecuting or not. She had more enemies than friends and she didn't play nice and while Martha valued both those things, not everyone did. And Clive had an entire campaign and the charm on his side. She hoped at least that CW had given him a run for his money in her absence.

She hadn't really registered the train of thought running away with her until Clive shifted awkwardly, still on her doorstep.

'Are you mad at me about that?' he asked and she couldn't help but laugh, mirthlessly, in his face.

'You think _that's_ what I'm mad about?'

He switched his weight from one leg to the other again, uneasy. 'I thought perhaps it could be one of many things.'

'Careful Clive,' she said, and in another world it would have been teasing instead of bitter. 'I might have to downgrade you from moron to idiot if you keep being so insightful.'

'There's a difference?' he asked and everything felt suddenly very hollow and painful. How was it that they could still joke together, after a fashion, when everything was broken between them?

'I'm not mad at you about that,' she said. 'I'm not upset or angry about it. In another life I'm happy for you, proud of you… Hell! I even am in this one but I'm just too fucking angry at you to fucking feel it!'

For the second time in two days Clive was faced with Martha's door slamming shut. And this time she did slam it.

Tuesday he was there again.

'I'm going to keep turning up Marth,' he said before she could slam the door in his face a third time.

'Why?' she asked tiredly, if he didn't know better he'd think he was wearing her down.

'You know why.'

'That's not a reason.'

'Of course it is. It's _the_ reason.'

'Just because of something you feel? Something you can't see or touch or quantify…' Something I'm not sure I even believe, she added silently in her head, but she didn't know whether she meant about him or herself.

'Ships have been launched and wars have been waged over less.'

'Don't give me a history lesson. I'm asking about you.'

'Okay, yes. That.'

'Just that?'

'No. We've been friends a long time. I've cared about you for a long time.'

Martha bit back a retort about how little their friendship had meant to him when it came down to it. Oh it wasn't that she didn't want to, didn't feel entitled to. She would say it to him and more but right now suddenly didn't seem like the moment. It wasn't about saving his feelings or letting it slide, but there was more between them, more to _them_, if there were such a thing, than that particular betrayal. She felt like there was something else Clive wasn't saying and whether it would change anything or not (probably not), she wanted to hear it. She wanted to understand.

Clive had trailed off, his 'And well…' left hanging when he noticed Martha's inattention.

'Just come in Clive,' she said, adding 'But keep your coat on,' when the invitation felt too much like giving up ground.

Clive shuffled hesitantly over the threshold, surprise leaving him mute as they stood awkwardly in the hallway, too close for comfort, avoiding each other's eye.

'And what?' Martha snapped, hating the way she felt overpowered by him in the small space, even though they were on her turf. Even though she'd invited him in. But the conversation didn't seem like one they should be having on the doorstep.

'And, well…' he repeated, 'Well because…I haven't always been there Marth. I've been too slow, too late, too many times.'

Martha's forehead creased into a frown, she didn't understand and Clive didn't know if he could explain without her finding it ridiculous, chauvinistic even, without raising ghosts that had never been put safely to bed.

'Clive?'

It was the first time she had said his name without a note of frustration and it broke him just like that.

'When…when you told me about the baby,' he said, fumbling for the words as he cringed, even now, in embarrassment at the way he'd acted and because talking about it still felt like being stabbed in the gut, a wrenching pain that didn't seem to have dissipated as much as he thought it might have by now. 'I didn't step up, not right away… When you…that day in court I didn't come straight over. I saw him and I thought you could handle it, I thought you'd snap at me for being overprotective, over stepping the line. If I'd just come over sooner maybe I could have…he wouldn't have been able to…we wouldn't have…'

'You don't know that,' she cut in, her chest burning at his fractured speech, the realisation that he cared, that it haunted him still, the thought that he, too, felt guilty, bringing both relief that she wasn't alone and discomfort because she didn't want, didn't expect, him to feel that way. But she'd never asked. She wondered if she should have. Knew she should have but then neither had he. They really were a fucking pair.

'I'm always two steps behind you Martha Costello,' he was saying, not bitterly, just sadly, affectionate, lost. 'I guess I always will be. I just can't seem to catch up. I draw level and then I do something that kicks me right back where I'm supposed to be.'

'I don't see it like that,' she said slowly, picking over her words. 'I've felt like I've been playing catch up since I came to the bar. Out of place, out of time, not fitting in. You got the first case…'

'And you got silk.'

'It was never a race Clive. I always thought we'd get it together, really, two new silks for Shoe Lane in one round.'

Clive smiled ruefully. 'You deserved it. I mean that, but it does also prove my point.'

Martha shook her head. 'You said it first.'

'What?'

'You know what.'

'Oh. Yeah.'

'You said it first and I was, I am, so far behind. I don't know when we got to that point Clive. Saying it out loud? When did you make that leap? How did I miss it? Why have I been floundering all these weeks when you just came out and said it?'

She flushed, not knowing where that had come from, uncomfortable with the sudden rush of words that weren't the angry accusations she wanted to fling at him. They had suddenly begun to tread on such unexpected ground, unchartered territory

'It wasn't a sudden thing,' Clive said softly. He was smiling again and Martha wasn't sure if it was what she'd said; that terrible, accidental confession that it was the saying of it outloud that scared her, that she was denying, not the love, or some kind of memories he was reliving in his head as he paused. It was horribly beautiful, anyhow; guileless, sincere, charming in a way that far surpassed the usual Clive Reader charm. She hated that she liked it, squeezing her hands together tightly, not able to trust that they wouldn't slap someone. Whether that was him or herself for being so foolish she wasn't sure.

'It just kind of crept up on me I suppose,' he continued. 'And I realised that I didn't just love all the things that other people love; your passion, your determination, the way you are when you win; the good stuff, but the bad stuff too; your temper, your dancing, the way you get when you lose.'

'Is this supposed to make me fall at your feet?'

Clive pretended the mocking tone didn't burn and shook his head. He knew there was possibly nothing that he could say that could repair their friendship, much less anything more than that, but for as long as she would listen he was sure as hell going to keep saying how he felt.

15


	4. Chapter 4

**Conversations We Never Had**

**Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Silk would not be over!**

A.N. I wasn't expecting to be able to get this up yet but I was working at this job where I had lots of short snippets of time and it was difficult to do anything other than just sit there or scribble in a notebook. So that is what I did! I also got to play at being on Silk as I was a pretend appellant in a case! Hope you enjoy it, although I'm not sure enjoy is the right word for the funeral chapter! And we haven't even got to the argument yet! Next chapter I promise. Plus there's a longer CW cameo next chapter too to add to the snippet in this one! Thank you for all your lovely reviews :)

4.

They stood in silence again, although it was slightly less strained than previously. Clive wondered if that should feel like such an achievement. He cleared his throat.

'Before I go,' he began and Martha was flooded with relief knowing that he wasn't under any illusions.

'I didn't want to talk about this on the doorstep. Billy's funeral…'

Her breath caught in her chest but she managed to nod.

'It's on Thursday. Service at eleven at St Mary's, wake in chambers.'

She gritted her teeth at that but nodded again, not sure she could speak even if she could find the words.

'You're invited to the burial too, out in Essex on Friday. Just family.'

'I'm in court,' she said and felt vaguely sick that that was the only thing she had managed to say.

Clive nodded too. 'Same. Or I would've offered to take you. I'll let Elaine know.'

Since it was a hypothetical offer that wasn't going to actually happen she decided not to chastise him for it.

'Okay.'

'Well, I'll be off,' Clive said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, as though he didn't know what to do with them, like they might reach out of their own accord in some comforting gesture.

'Okay,' Martha said again, feeling stupid but fixated on his hands in his pockets.

'You okay Marth?' Clive asked, in spite of himself and waited gingerly to see if she would blast him again.

'Yeah,' she said, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other and open the door. 'Yeah. I'll see you on Thursday.'

'You'll come?' He couldn't help asking. It felt like such progress even though her attendance had nothing to do with him.

'Of course!' she snapped, but her tone wasn't as sharp as it could have been.

'Thursday then,' he said, slipping past her and out of the door. He was halfway up the steep when she called out for him.

'Clive?'

He paused.

'Thanks for coming to tell me,' she said softly and he turned to look but she had closed the door before he could see her face.

Nonetheless, her quiet thanks warmed him all the way home, got him through an endless Wednesday of chambers' paperwork and Harriet's complaints and helped him resist the temptation to tread the familiar path to her door to see if she was alright.

Martha was relieved when the good weather broke on Wednesday night. She laid awake, unable to sleep and listened to the rain hitting the pavement outside her open window and the thunder rumbling distantly across the city. It felt like the right thing; rain for a funeral.

When morning came she dug out a black dress that she only ever wore for such occasions and applied a double layer of lipstick for protection. Half a mug of coffee was all she could manage by way of breakfast and she was at the church a good twenty minutes early. She sat in the second row of pews and watched out of the corner of her eye as the room began to fill with people. Billy's wife and daughter took the first pew, two of his sisters joining them. Despite their invitation to sit with them Martha stayed where she was. She didn't want to intrude on their grief, much as she didn't want them to intrude on hers. One of the sisters was already crying and while Martha understood the impulse, she was desperately clinging to her self control. The surrounding pews were filling with friends and colleagues; clerks, solicitors, barristers, judges; people Martha didn't want to show weakness too. At least until she couldn't help it. She sat alone in her pew as the latecomers filed in, more familiar faces from the small world that was the London bar. Other silks, old pupils, adversaries and co-counsels. She caught sight of Alan across the aisle who nodded at her sadly and CW a few rows behind him looking unusually subdued. Then there were people she didn't know but could recognise as family from passing resemblances to Billy. A wry smile, a pair of eyes in the same shade of blue, a certain look, a smile, the shape of a jaw or chin or a distinct receding hairline. When it came to the two brothers carrying the coffin, the resemblance was uncanny. Jake and John, along with Billy's son and another of Billy's nephews were also bearing the coffin. The silence and their stony faces so different to the way she knew them from the clerk's room.

It was almost eleven when Martha felt a movement beside her. The church was crowded now, the low hum of almost a hundred subdued voices filling the vestry. When she turned to glance at the intruder of her solitary pew she noticed how tightly the other pews were packed, mourners stood several deep at the back and along the walls. And yet they had left her row free, one lonely figure on the empty pew. She wondered why; fear, respect, the assumption that she was saving the spaces for someone, that she wanted to be alone? It made her smile that out of all the esteemed colleagues, confident barristers, well respected judges and ducking and diving clerks in the room without a seat, it was Bethany who had dared to break the spell. Quiet Bethany, sliding into the space beside her with a sweet, sad smile and no unnecessary words, just a look of understanding. Martha managed some kind of tight lipped grimace in return and thankfully there was no time for conversation as the minister appeared and the congregation fell silent. Eyes on him she missed a second movement, this time to her left and it wasn't until they both reached for an order of service from the shelf at the back of the front pew that she realised hers had another occupant.

Clive.

Of course. It was sneaky, slipping in at the last moment, in the hush when she couldn't remonstrate. He didn't say anything, didn't try to catch her eye and she struggled with herself knowing that she was grateful for the solid, comforting presence beside her. It was justified, she told herself, no different to the way she felt about Alan's understanding nod, the look when she'd caught CW's eye, Bethany's smile and Jake and John joining their pew, their coffin bearing duties done. It was Shoe Lane, united, reunited, together despite their differences when it mattered most. And Clive was simply that; a familiar presence, a friendly face. She was relieved to find she couldn't see Harriet anywhere in the congregation, although she could easily have arrived undetected. The woman probably thought of it as a fabulous networking opportunity.

Martha shook the thought and her annoyance off, refocussing on the priest but then wishing she hadn't. His words were so generic, so insincere. He hadn't known Billy and she felt frustrated, annoyed with the man and also herself, for not being involved, for not helping with the arrangements, not offering to speak. Though she knew that she would have struggled to find the words. That she might have stood up there, lost and voiceless the way she had been in chambers. And that would have been worse than in chambers and she didn't want to let Billy down again.

She let herself zone in and out as the priest spoke and had to be nudged to her feet when it came to the hymn. She had been okay up until then, feeling sad and hollow but holding herself together. It was the singing that undid her. Attempting to sing when her throat was so tight, her voice so full of tears was nearly impossible. And then, through Clive's surprisingly good baritone and Bethany's sweet soprano, she heard Billy's voice. The timbre, the sound, the accent, in the mix of brothers' and sisters' voices. She hadn't heard him sing very often but there had been a few times in chambers when he was particularly happy or thought no one was listening, the wedding of a colleague several years ago and a few drunken rounds in the pub one Christmas (or several) and that was enough. She closed her eyes, listening, desperately, to the voice that was Billy and yet wasn't and she was undone.

The first tears fell slowly and she let them slide without brushing them away, not wanting to draw attention to herself. But those were quickly followed by more and then more and she was forced to use an unsubtle hand and take an surreptitious sniff. For a moment she thought she had got away with it, until she felt Bethany pressing a tissue into her right hand, one of her own already clutched in her fist and tears wet on her cheeks.

'Thank you,' Martha whispered, damp eyes meeting damp eyes for a moment. Bethany nodded and gave her another slight smile. Martha noticed that her other hand was tightly clasped with Jake's. She was happy to see that. Glad that things were working out for someone. Wondered how it was that they could make it work even though Jake was no longer at Shoe Lane when she and Clive couldn't manage it in the shame chambers, the same office. Or perhaps it was because of that. She watched them a little, covertly, as they sang, noted the way they stood closer than was unusual, shoulder to shoulder, invading each other's personal space like it was the easiest thing in the world; a good thing, a nice thing, how Jake stroked his thumb against Bethany's where their hands were joined, a gesture that spoke of comfort and care and tenderness even though Martha couldn't feel it herself.

She looked away, wiping her eyes and taking a shuddering breath. Clive was still singing beside her and she thought he hadn't noticed. She should have known better than to underestimate him. The moment she slid her eyes away there was a nudge at her left hand this time, Clive's hand bumper hers, fingers lacing together followed by a soft squeeze. She glanced at him sharply, a full turn of her head, but he was still singing, staring straight ahead, moisture at the corner of his eyes. He wasn't using the hymn sheet, didn't need it, and Martha wondered if he'd been a choir boy at boarding school. He looked like the type; all blond and angelic as a kid no doubt. She wasn't surprised that if he had been one he had kept it quiet; it was something she would have been bound to tease him about, in another life. She let her fingers respond to his touch, curling round his, naturally, effortlessly, and gave the slightest of squeezes, just to make sure he didn't let go.

The hymn ended and they sat down, fingers still intertwined. They remained that way for the rest of the service, not speaking, not looking, just holding hands. When it was over Clive leaned in.

'I need to go make sure everything's sorted,' he said softly. 'I'll see you there.'

There was a beat of hesitation, his breath against her ear for a moment an then he was standing up, releasing her hand and slipping out of the pew as silently as he had come.

'Make sure she gets back okay,' Clive said, but whether it was directed to Bethany, Jake or John, Martha wasn't sure. She was stuck, staring at the coffin, twin realisations burning in her chest; that this was it; Billy was gone, and that Clive letting go of her hand had left her feeling hollow and even more alone.

She shared a cab back to chambers with Jake, John and Bethany but couldn't recall any of the journey when she found herself suddenly faced with the steps up to Shoe Lane. She had let the others go ahead, saying she'd just be a minute, needed some air, or some other kind of frail excuse. They hadn't pushed her, disappearing through the door to join the crowd inside. She wasn't sure how long she'd been stood there when she heard a voice behind her. Tart and unsympathetic but not entirely unwelcome for that.

'You going in or going to make a run for it again?'

Martha spun round to face Caroline but didn't really have a retort.

'I haven't decided yet.'

'There's free wine.'

Martha raised an eyebrow.

'Perfectly legitimate factor.'

'But not my deciding one.'

'What's that then?'

'I don't know. I just…I walked out of here with no intention of coming back.'

'So? You can walk back out again later.'

'I guess so.'

'What're you afraid of?'

'I'm not afraid.'

CW raised her eyebrow this time and Martha faltered.

'Twenty years of memories, the realisation that Billy is really gone, Clive…'

'You didn't exactly look afraid of him earlier,' Caroline said and Martha narrowed her eyes. How CW had seen anything incriminating from where she sat she didn't know.

'It's complicated. '

'I'm sure,' Caroline said, sounding like she thought the opposite. There was a pause. 'Well I'm going in. Want me to bring the wine out?'

Martha shook her head, smiling at that. 'I'll be right there.'

'If you're still out here in ten minutes I'll calling the cops or the psychiatric ward or something.'

'Go get your wine,' Martha said, shooing her away and taking a deep breath. CW disappeared up the steps and through the door like the others, before poking her head back out.

'It doesn't mean anything,' she said. 'Going back in. No matter what Clive thinks.'

Martha didn't answer but she found her feet able to move when she tried a few moments later and she made slow progress up the steps until the familiar handle was in her hand and she was home.

A thousand memories she thought she had forgotten assaulted her at once; arriving for her pupilage interview, her first day, the first time that chambers felt like coming home, a hundred unremarkable moments when she'd crossed this threshold, Billy and Clive usually waiting inside. The noise that greeted her as she stepped into the hallway reminded her that this wasn't one of those times. That there wouldn't be any of those times ever again. There was a buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses from the main meeting room and the urge to duck into her office was stronger than ever but she steeled herself and walked towards the source of the noise. The room was busy, most of the mourners from the church who didn't have urgent cases or court dates were there amongst Billy's family. Talking, drinking and eating finger sandwiches.

'Martha!' someone called, noticing her in the doorway, and she was immediately lost in a crowd of well wishers and sympathies.

Clive's head snapped up at the sound of her name but trapped in conversation with a judge he should know but couldn't quite recall the name of, he couldn't do much more than pick out her blonde head amongst the mass of people in the room and feel relieved that she'd finally arrived. He'd been feigning interest for the last half an hour, watching the door from the corner of his eye and worrying. Worrying about Martha, if she was okay, if she really was going to come to chambers, what it meant that she'd let him hold her hand. He wondered if it would ever stop.

14


End file.
